


Chthonic Claim

by Kitmistry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (or at least I tried), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Dissociation, Hallucinations, Lovecraftian Monster(s), M/M, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Mild Gore, Monster of the Week, Nightmares, One-Sided Attraction, Pining Dean Winchester, Psychological Horror, SPN Eldritch Bang, Suspense, They don't get together, Unrequited Love, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-27 12:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21118451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitmistry/pseuds/Kitmistry
Summary: Their cases usually start with someone dying or going missing, only this time, what draws Dean and Sam to a small, secluded town is the mysterious appearance of a woman after thirty years. What starts as a simple crossroads demon case spirals out of control as Dean slowly loses himself to the case, plagued by nightmares and hallucinations of monsters and shadows that stalk his every waking and sleeping moment. Things only get more complicated when Castiel shows up, worried about the brothers.Between dealing with the Mark of Cain driving him crazy and a town that hides an ancient secret, Dean has to take things into his own hands and stop the ghosts that are hunting him once and for all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [ galaxystiel ](https://blueeyedangel.co.vu/) for the beautiful art and for being a wonderful person overall. You can find the art masterpost [here.](https://blueeyedangel.co.vu/post/188536473292/cthonic-claim-art-post-written-for)
> 
> Also thank you to the wonderful people that helped make this fic into something that makes sense. [ kitsunecastiel ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunecastiel/pseuds/kitsunecastiel) and [Jak_the_ATAT ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jak_the_ATAT/pseuds/Jak_the_ATAT) for their valuable input, and [ captainoftheussphasethefuckers ](https://captainoftheussphasethefuckers.tumblr.com/post/184994113384/theyre-gonna-clean-up-your-looks/amp) for helping me untangle my outline and then being my beta. 
> 
> Written for Supernatural Eldritch Bang 2019.

A crow moves its head to follow the Impala as it passes by the half-destroyed sign that points to the direction of the town. At the crossroad they leave behind, a gust of wind makes the dust on the road swirl about.

With rock music blasting through the speakers Dean bobs his head to the beat. The drive is long, but Sam insisted that a new case is exactly what they needed to take Dean’s mind off of _ things _—namely a certain mark on his forearm—and Dean is always down for a good old hunt. Just drive into town, gank the monster, and roll into the sunset. Nothing too complicated—just like the old times. 

The road narrows the further they drive into the forest; some points are narrow enough that if a second car was coming from the opposite direction there wouldn’t be enough room to pass. Lucky for them, they don’t meet anyone else on the way to the small town that is their destination.

They take a wide turn, trees obscuring their view, and then they reach an opening and see the first houses.

The nameless town is secluded and buried in mist, stuck somewhere between the industrial revolution and modern times, with cobbled streets meeting asphalt where the older parts of the town melt into the newer ones. Most of the houses are old, with the more recent additions sticking out like sore thumbs against the dirty paneling and patched up roofs, but the central road that cuts the town in half is lined with stores that are recently renovated. They drive by the river that passes through the town in search of a motel, and Dean takes note of a diner that looks like it makes decent food.

Except this god-forsaken town doesn’t have motels, as they soon find out. At least a plump, balding man at the post-office reluctantly points them to a complex of cabins near the edge of the town that they can rent for a few days. The townspeople lift their heads at the sound of Baby passing by on their way there, not used to newcomers. They peek through curtains and pretend to take the trash out, and by the time Baby reaches the cabins, the owner is already expecting them. News travel unnervingly fast out here.

The garden is filled with junk, like tires, an antique dresser turned into a planter, and even a spinning wheel. A fucking spinning wheel. Dean doesn’t even want to begin guessing how that got there. Three intersecting rings are carved above the door, and Dean narrows his eyes at them before carrying their duffel bags inside.

"Home sweet home," he says, dropping their bags by the staircase that leads to the two bedrooms on the first floor. The cabin is covered in a thin sheet of dust, but the wooden walls are thick, and the rooms big and airy. "So, what's our first move?"

Sam glances up from where he's setting up his laptop on a desk pushed against the wall. "I guess we go out and find Sophia."

"Right, and Sophia is the lovely old lady that walked out of the woods and refuses to speak." Dean opens the fridge, almost surprised not to find spider webs inside with how empty it is. They need to go grocery shopping if they plan to stay more than a couple of days here.

"She's not an old lady. She's barely fifty, and she disappeared thirty years ago," Sam says, wrestling with cables. "She was reported missing by her father, who passed away a couple of years ago."

"Remind me, how is this a case for us, again?"

Sam shrugs, inspecting his work. "How many people do you know that simply vanish for decades only to walk out of the forest on their own?"

Dean grimaces, pushing the fridge closed again. "Touché."

"Just let me get my things to the room, and I'll meet you back here in ten?" Sam asks, already moving towards the stairs. 

Dean takes his phone out absentmindedly, already not paying any more attention to his brother. "Sure, I'll check in with Cas, let him know where we are." 

He scrolls down until he finds the right name, presses call and lifts the phone to his ear.

He waits.

And he waits some more.

The call never goes through, for the line is cut without a warning. 

No signal, great. As if this place isn't isolated enough already.

* * *

As it turns out, Sophia doesn't have an address, and the guy at the post office is reluctant to answer their questions. Somehow, judging by the side glances everyone gave them while they drove through town, Dean is not sure asking around will help them. Thank God he knows one place that he can always count on for small town gossip. It’s time for lunch anyway.

The food at the dinner is tolerable at best, but with a generous tip and a charming smile, the girl that takes their order is more than happy to point them to the right direction. She sounds a bit too excited about the whole subject, though Dean guesses not a lot of interesting stuff happens around here. 

To get to the house Sophia is staying at, they have to cross the river and drive to a neighbourhood with overgrown gardens and too many weird gnomes hanging around the houses. They check the numbers on the fences, even though it becomes clear which house is the right one when they spot the woman dressed in black sitting on a porch. She has long, wavy hair, which contrast her straight face and dull eyes, that stare out into the void. She doesn't even blink when they get out of the car and shut the doors closed. A black dog lounging by her feet raises her head to sniff the air, but otherwise doesn't move. 

The same tri-ring symbol is carved above the door of the house.

"Hello, ma'am," Sam says, climbing up the stairs. "We're reporters. If you have a moment, we'd like to ask you a few questions."

Sophia doesn't move at all. She just keeps staring somewhere behind Sam's elbow. If Dean couldn't see her chest rising and falling with her breath he'd have thought she was a very successful wax figure.

"Ma'am?" Sam tries again.

"Oh, she doesn't talk." 

The brunette appears walking towards them from the garden shed, a basket of herbs and wildflowers in her hands. She looks around the same age as Sophia, maybe a little older, and she narrows her brown eyes at them. "Who are you?"

Dean straightens up, giving Sam a meaningful glance over his shoulder. They have their story ready from the moment they set foot into this town.

"Billy Gibbons and Frank Beards. We're reporters." He offers his hand but has to awkwardly pull it back when she just raises an eyebrow at it. "We heard about Sophia's… extraordinary story. We'd like to ask her a few questions if you don't mind."

"Well, you're not going to get any answers from her," she says, pushing the basket against her hip as she walks past Dean and up the stairs. She’s at the door when she turns towards them again. "But please, come in for some tea. It'd be a waste not to after you came all the way out here."

The house is cluttered with books and flowers. Planters line every single windowsill in sight, while some are resting on top of bookcases, and more are squeezed together in the corners of the room. This place could be a jungle. Static and broken words fill the room from an antique radio on the bookcase. The woman turns it off on her way deeper in the house.

"I'm Demi," she says, gesturing for them to sit at the kitchen table. She puts the basket on a counter before turning around and starting pulling stuff from the cupboards—a kettle with a mismatched tea set, and porcelain plates.

"Are you and Sophia related?" Sam asks, accepting the plate with cookies she offers him. "Thank you. Somebody told us she's staying here."

"Oh, we're not related," Demi says. She puts the kettle on the stove for the water to boil. Then she turns around and searches through a collection of mason jars. "What do you guys want? I have green tea, black tea, herbal tea. I make the mixes all by myself with local ingredients."

"Whatever you like, we're good," Sam smiles politely at her.

“If you’re not related, why is she staying with you?” Dean asks, eyeing suspiciously the teacup placed in front of him. It looks too delicate to be used regularly, and it definitely was not made to be handled by someone with as big fingers as he and Sam have.

“Poor thing doesn’t have any family,” Demi sighs, shaking her head. “It was just her and her daddy back in the day, and now she’s back, he’s…” she trails off, giving a you-know look to them over her shoulder. “I couldn’t just let her live on the streets, could I?”

The kettle whistles, a shrill noise that surprises Demi and makes her jump a little before a blush crawls up her face. “Goodness,” she chuckles. “That was fast.”

She pours the boiling water in a teapot that is lined with purple flowers all around its base, then settles the teapot in the middle of the table, before fetching cake from a cupboard to serve with the cookies. “Do you guys like chocolate, or just plain vanilla? Don’t worry, they’re both vegan. No eggs or butter in this recipe, no, no,” she says in her sing-song voice, even though she’s already serving both on a metallic tray.

“Um- both, I guess,” Sam frowns, raising an eyebrow at Dean. They’re clearly losing the control of this conversation, and they need to get back on track. Fast.

Dean clears his throat. “How do you know Sophia again?" 

Demi pauses, her hands frozen as they carry cake to the tray. She tilts her head to the side, dark hair brushing her shoulders with the movement. "It's a small town. Everyone knows everyone here," she says carefully. With slow movements she brings the tray to the table, eyeing Dean the whole time.

"Thank God she has someone to look after her, right?" Sam jumps in, forcing Demi to tear her eyes away from Dean, though her attention doesn't waver for long.

"What are you looking for exactly?" she asks.

Dean feels goosebumps raising the hair on the back of his neck under the attention. The Mark flares up, an itch spreading all over his skin. He forces himself to smile anyway. "Just looking for a great story."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Truly, there's not much to tell."

If Sam notices Dean's discomfort he doesn't show it, but he does say, "We're not looking for the Pulitzer. Just want to get to the bottom of this."

Demi shakes her head. "Unless you can get Sophia to talk, I don't think you can. But you're welcome to try." She blinks, eyes becoming unfocused for a second, then her bubbly personality is back like it never left. "Oh, the tea will get cold. Please have some."

* * *

Sophia hasn't moved at all when they return to the front porch. She's just sitting there, face empty. The dog at her feet has turned on her back, tongue hanging outside her mouth as she naps the afternoon away.

Demi leans against the door frame, watching as Sam tries to get some sort of reaction out of the other woman, but no matter what he says, she doesn't move at all. 

Feeling uneasy for a reason he can't put his finger on, Dean walks down to the garden, observing the neighbouring houses.

A curtain moves on the top floor across the street, like someone was watching but drew away when Dean turned his attention there. A low buzzing noise starts up from somewhere around him. It's too low for Dean to pinpoint a source, but it still gets on his nerves. The mark sends a wave of energy through him, but he refuses to pay attention. He's not going to feed its thirst.

Soon Sam joins him, shoulders shagging. "No luck."

Dean glances back, where Demi is kneeling by Sophia's side, head tilted like she's whispering something. "Great, and what do we do now?"

Sam shrugs. "Go back to the cabin? Do some research on the town?"

"Shouldn't we have done that before coming here?" Dean asks, turning to frown at his brother.

Something flickers at the edge of his vision, grey and amorphous, but it has disappeared by the time Dean turns to check. It might be nothing, but in his line of work everything is something. He squints towards the tree line, but the forest remains unchanged, a steady presence surrounding them.

His instinct is screaming that something is wrong, and it has nothing to do with the itch on his arm. Now that he thinks about it, without him noticing, the buzzing has stopped, too. 

He glances back towards the porch, and locks eyes with Sophia. Not unfocused, seeing through him, but looking straight at him, pinning him in place, and just behind her eyes, like it's wearing her skin like a mask, is something else. He blinks, and her eyes are vacant again.

"Fuck," he says, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Everything okay?" Sam asks.

Demi is still kneeling by Sophia's side, but she's facing them now, waiting to see what they're going to do.

"Yeah, yeah. Just…this place is giving me the creeps," Dean admits, shivering.

Sam cocks his head to the side, glancing around them. "I don't know, I think it's kind of cute. Small and quaint."

"You also think that serial killers are cool, so your opinion doesn't exactly count," Dean scoffs. "Come on, let's go."

They walk towards the car, lifting a hand in a silent goodbye to Demi. She doesn't look too eager to share any parting words either. It doesn't matter. Dean has a feeling they'll talk to her again soon.

* * *

"Shit," Sam curses, glaring at his laptop.

"You alright there?" Dean is sprawled on the sofa, legs crossed at the ankles. He's nursing one of the beers they bought to go with the dinner sandwiches. However so far, neither brother has had much of an appetite.

"I can't get any signal," Sam says, tapping his keyboard furiously. "No internet, no cell phone, nothing."

Dean lifts the bottle to his lips to hide the beginning of a smile. "Back in my day we lived just fine without the internet."

Sam's intense bitch face turns on him now. "I need internet to do research, Dean."

"You'll figure something out, I believe in you," Dean says, twisting and arching his body to fish his phone out of his pocket. Still no signal. He'll have to get closer to the town center and try to call Cas later.

"I think the owner said there's a map somewhere in here," Sam says, pushing the chair back. He goes through every drawer in their tiny kitchen, cutlery clanking, until he finally comes up triumphant with a paper in his hand. "Bingo."

"What do you need the map for? This town is smaller than the bunker." 

"Yes, but since I don't have access to the internet here, maybe they have a library or an internet cafe or something," Sam explains, nose already buried in the map.

Dean taps two fingers on the coffee table to get his brother’s attention. "Sammy, I think it's time for an intervention. Internet addiction can be dangerous—"

"Shut up, jerk," Sam cuts him off with a scowl. "I just want to double check some stuff.”

“We’ll get you your fix tomorrow, I promise,” Dean says, pulling himself upright. He rolls the beer bottle between his palms. It’s time to focus on what they came here to do. “So what are we thinking?”

Sam shakes his head. “Could be a shapeshifter?”

“What, and she came back just to fuck with us? No, it has to be something else,” Dean argues, lifting the bottle to his lips to take a sip. “Demons? Could explain the lost signal.”

“I didn’t smell any sulfur at Demi’s house,” Sam counters. “Did you?”

“No, but it could be some kind of weird deal.”

Sam’s face lights up. He traces a road on the map that Dean can’t see. “We did pass that crossroad while coming here, didn’t we? It might be worth checking out.”

“Right, first thing tomorrow,” Dean says, dropping back to lie on the couch. He finds the remote to the ancient TV the cabin comes with, but like everything else in this cursed place, it doesn’t work. 

Shit, drinking in silence is not exactly nice, but he’ll settle for that tonight.

* * *

He must have dozed off at some point, because Dean feels phantom hands skating their way down his body, and he jerks awake.

He’s alone. 

The room is dark. The TV is turned on, though he distinctly remembers turning it off earlier when he couldn’t get it to work. A weird black and white cartoon about a girl in a flower field is on. She is kneeling under a tree, and a cloaked figure watches her from afar. While the girl has her back turned, the cloaked figure approaches. 

The clock above the TV reads something past too late, and Dean sits up with a groan. His back pops.

The house is eerily silent around him, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels heavy and constricting. Like it shrunk in the hours he’s been asleep.

A sudden series of rings tears through the night.

_ Bzzzzz, bzzzzz, bzzzzz _

Dean’s phone is lying on the floor, face down. The silence vibrates with it. When Dean lifts it, Cas’ name looks up at him from the screen.

“Hey,” he says as a greeting, voice hoarse and foreign from sleep.

“Dea-- make it? Did--”

“Hey, I can’t hear you,” Dean says, straining his ears to hear what Cas is trying to say over the static. Stupid signal. 

A loud screech blares through the phone, making Dean jerk away. It lasts for a couple of seconds, and then silence. The girl on the screen is now following the dark figure along a river. 

“Cas,” Dean tries, bringing the phone back to his ear.

“Dean, where are you?” Cas’ voice is clear this time, loud in the emptiness of the room that presses all around Dean. 

A wolf howls in the night.

“Investigating that case I told you about. Remember? Old lady found in the forest?”

The Mark throbs, like a silent siren that goes off without warning, but Dean ignores it.

“Did she make it out of the forest?” Cas asks, and his voice fades in and out. Sometimes it feels like he’s talking right next to Dean, like if he just turned around they’d be sitting pressed close together, and sometimes he’s so distant a whole world could be between them.

“She’s out alright,” Dean says. “She’s just not talking.”

“What are you looking for?” Castiel asks. There’s the annoying buzzing again, right under Castiel’s words.

Dean sighs. “We’re thinking demons so far, but we’re gonna look into it.”

“No, I—” Cas’ voice breaks, the buzzing becoming louder now. “Can— Dean?” he tries, words barely reaching through the line.

“Buddy, I can’t hear you,” Dean says, resisting the urge to raise his own voice.

“—you go —she is —forest— Dean?”

The line is cut off, and the buzzing sound disappears with it, too. His arm is itching again, but Dean doesn’t have the mind to pay any attention to it. He throws the phone on the side table and falls back on the couch. His head is spinning like he's drunk. 

The wolf keeps howling under the waning moon.

* * *

The three-way crossroad is a mile or so outside the town, and a large pole at the side of it points to all three directions the roads lead to with names and miles written on it. It’s a weird pole, now that Dean pays closer attention to it, made out of wood and with vines carved all the way down its length. It ends on a sculpture of three animal skulls, each facing a different direction. They remind Dean of some drawings he'd seen of angel true forms, but the dead, demonic version of those. They're too high for him to reach. He still touches the pole with two fingers.

"That's some weird shit," he tells Sam when his brother comes to stand next to him. "What kind of pole is that?"

"Hey, check this out." 

While Dean has his eyes stuck up high, Sam is staring right under the pole. The ground is covered in bushes and low, crawling flowers. Except for one spot.

They look at each other, and soon they have shovels out of the trunk and are digging. Sam's shovel hits something metallic, and the ringing vibrates up Dean's spine, raising a shiver on its way.

"It's a box." Sam kneels on the ground, cleaning the last dirt away with his palm. It looks battered and old, free of any carving or symbols.

When they open it, they find small, white bones inside, covered in dried herbs and the dust of something that has long since rotten away.

Dean raises an eyebrow at the contents. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

* * *

They wait for the cover of the night. A little chalk is all they need to draw the demon trap in the middle of the road, and then they're ready. Sam has already prepared the ingredients, stored away in a tin box they found at the cabin, and all that's left is to finish the ritual. They bury it in a shallow hole, patting the dirt above to even the ground again.

Nothing happens.

Dean looks around them. This is the moment where usually a crossroads demon appears, but tonight it's just them and the trees. Leaves rattle with the gentle breeze.

"Did you get the ingredients right?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "I'm not twelve, Dean."

"So why is nothing happening then?" Dean asks, hands on his hips. The sky is filled with stars, but it's so high up, lost among the tree tops and the clouds that barely any light reaches them.

"Maybe we should give it a moment," Sam suggests. And so they wait.

* * *

Dean insists Sam must have done something wrong, and Sam insists he didn't.

So for the second night in a row they carry a box to the crossroads. This time Dean diligently put everything together, double checking he has everything right. They bury it and wait.

* * *

Dean stands alone. 

The forest whispers all around him. Leaves hum to a secret tune that he can only catch parts of.

He’s at the crossroad again, but where is Sam?

Where is his car?

He remembers coming here last night and waiting for no reason. And he remembers returning to the cabin. Sam had complained about needing some source of information. And Dean— 

Dean is here.

The hole is already dug for him, and the box is placed inside. He should bury it.

The shadows close in on him, crawling on the pavement and surrounding him. Something lurks inside them.

Dean has his phone in his hand, though he can't remember dialing the number. 

It doesn't matter, the line connects, and it rings.

Once, twice. 

Three times.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean opens and closes his mouth uselessly. He can hear the frown in Cas’ voice.

“Dean?”

Inhale, exhale. 

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Cas exhales, too. A long sigh. 

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, like he already knows exactly where Dean is and what he should be doing.

“I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to talk,” Dean admits, fear coiling tight in his gut. The Mark wakes up, slow and blearily, but it burns through his veins. When Dean rolls his sleeve back to check, it’s angry and swollen. It demands to be fed.

“We’re talking now,” Castiel says at the other end of the line, his breath steady in Dean’s ear, close enough to almost feel it brushing against his cheek.

The Mark is taunting him, and panic is quickly rising up his throat, and Cas is trying to reach him through the void between them, but Dean can’t let him. He stands in the middle of the crossroad, the Mark clawing its way up his arm, phone pressed between shoulder and cheek, and his breath is coming faster and faster.

And still the hole waits for him to fill it up.

* * *

Every attempt they've made to summon the demon has been fruitless. It's borderline suspicious. Even if nothing of the demonic kind is happening around here, someone should have answered their calls by now. If only to tell them to fuck off because no deals have been made in this town. Which means Dean is convinced some greater demons are behind all these. They just have to figure out their game, find what interests them in abandoned towns and young women.

Sam finds a library, and he holes up in there for hours trying to make sense of this case, though he hasn't made a breakthrough yet. He still doesn't have internet.

Dean, for his own part, tries to get people to talk to him. He puts on the charm and the humor, wears the boyish grin that fits him like a glove and abuses the puppy dog eyes that get him free coffee. He's met with doors slummed to his face, wide, panicked eyes, and people running away from him. People just don't trust strangers. Though everyone seems to know the story they told Demi on their first day here.

When he gets the tenth door shut to his face, Dean has to admit defeat. It's almost lunch time anyway, and he'd better get back to the cabin and see if he can cook something on that ancient stove. Their stomachs can stand so much crappy diner food.

* * *

There's a loud bang against their door.

Dean has already tucked his gun in the back of his waistband, leaving the water to simmer on the stove. There's no one when he checks outside, but the abandoned spinning wheel in their garden shrieks as it turns slowly. 

A little girl runs down the road, her laughter left behind even when she has disappeared in the trees. _ Dean, _her faint voice calls, or it might just be the wind playing tricks on him. 

Dean follows her all the same.

The thick shade of the forest makes him shiver when he steps in. The mark on his arm throbs. It's not painful yet, but it's close.

He steps deeper into the woods, cursing at himself for not bringing something to light his way through the dark—

When did it get dark?

It was only early evening when the little girl…

He hears her laughing again, somewhere to his left. 

The branches flutter all around him, the girl's voice drifting between them, creating ripples through the air.

There, up ahead. Two orbs of light. Floating. Waiting. Calling.

Something stirs, just at the corner of his eye, but there's nothing there. Just the dark, and the light, and the girl's voice, echoing all around him. The shadows move, shapes changing, elongating, sharpening, ghostly limbs reaching out for him. 

He has to get away, but he can't move his legs. 

The darkness gets him before the shadows.

"Dean?"

There are hands on him.

No, there are fingers on him. Two, to be exact, pressed against his forehead. He blinks his eyes open, and blue eyes blink down at him. 

"Cas?" he mumbles. It's hard to talk. His mouth feels slow and filled with sand. 

The water on the stove is boiling over, and Dean is—did he fall asleep? He doesn't remember sitting on the couch but that's where he is now.

"Were you having a nightmare?" Castiel asks, all stupid trenchcoat and owlish tilt to his head. 

A weak whine starts under his skin, the Mark calling for attention, and panic claws its way up Dean's throat. "What are you doing here?" he asks, flinching away.

Cas shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a remnant of his brief time as human. "I was worried. I haven't heard from you in a long time."

Dean frowns. "A long time? But we—"

"Hey, Cas. You're here," Sam says, stepping inside with his laptop tucked under his armpit. "When did you— shit!" His eye widen, and he lunges for the stove, turning it off and pushing the pot away. He sighs. "Guys, didn't you notice the water boiling over?"

Of course Dean did. But he was a little preoccupied being freaked out, and then Cas was here and talking about nightmares and-

"Cas, we talked just a couple of days ago," he says, weakly. 

Both Sam and Cas stare at him.

"No, Dean. We didn't," Cas says. "The last time we talked you were at the bunker."

"No, no we definitely talked. It was… it was night, and I…" he trails off.

He was in the cabin, right? And that weird cartoon was on. No, that was the first time. They definitely talked again. At the crossroad, when he was alone.

Sam glances at Castiel before speaking. "Dean, there's no signal in this town. We haven't been able to get our phones to connect in days."

Dean swallows.

"Were you dreaming?" There's concern in Cas' eyes, and Dean remembers two fingers pressed to his forehead, pulling him from the forest. 

The girl must have been a dream. And those phone calls, he can't be sure. The more he thinks about it, the muddier the memory becomes, until he's not sure if it's a memory at all.

"I guess it must have been a dream," he relents. 


	2. Chapter 2

The frozen water hits his back, trickles down his legs. He’s shivering, but at least his blood is no longer simmering. The Mark is sleeping again.

Dean stands under the shower, head tilted against the cold tiles. Castiel’s and Sam’s voices drift upstairs from the kitchen, but it’s hard to make out their words. They’re probably talking about him. How he’s unstable and fucked up. 

And they don’t even know how fucked Dean really is. It’s not just the Mark. It’s not just the dreams either. Dean feels watched. Constantly. And finding no one every time he checks over his shoulder only makes him more paranoid. There are shadows dancing out of the edge of his vision all the time, and Dean has to grit his teeth and clench his fist until nail bites into flesh so he is sure he’s not dreaming. The shadows are gone by then.

The lines between dreaming and reality are too blurred for him right now. Those nights… They felt real. Like waking up with Castiel above him was real. And the worst part is Dean doesn’t even remember waking up from those dreams. Or falling asleep for that matter. They’re just there. In the back of his mind, distant and isolated, like that memory of him and Sam watching fireworks in a field. He doesn’t remember how they got there or what they did after, but he remembers the fireworks, and their colors washing across Sam’s face. Red on his nose, blue across his forehead, bright yellow that covers his hair, a shadow lurking behind him.

Dean’s eyes snap open. 

No. That’s not part of the memory, there was no shadow in the memory. That's his mind playing tricks on him. He clenches his fist, bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste blood, then slides down to kneel on the bottom of the shower. 

This is not a dream. This is not a dream.

He is real.

Inhale, exhale.

* * *

The woods call to him. The forest breathes, slow and eternal. 

Inhale, exhale. 

The leaves whisper his name, murmur their promises. 

Dean follows.

Something moves around him, hidden in the dark. The shadows slither around stones and vines, across wood and skin. 

When he turns to glance at them, the only thing he sees is the sweet night breeze. 

The petals shiver. The roots wait.

Inhale, exhale.

He can feel a breath behind his neck, close enough that lips ghost over his skin.

He's alone when he checks.

It calls his name, and Dean presses deeper.

The fog curls around his ankles, catches at his legs, makes them feel heavier. It crawls under his skin, where his blood thrums steadily with unsated hunger. Through the night, a hundred eyes blink back at him, dark and hazy. Fingers press their bruising grip into his arm, pulling and pushing. 

A wolf howls under the moon.

He's alone.

Inhale.

On the exhale, he breaks into a clearing, where the moonlight casts the grass in hazy, silver hues. 

The woods whisper to him.

He's not alone.

"Cas." The name falls like a confession from his lips, torn from his throat involuntarily.

Castiel stands all the way across the clearing, but his chest rises and falls together with the forest. His heart beats to the rhythm of the night, and he stares at Dean. Unmoving. Unblinking. His eyes, two blue, shining orbs in the darkness. 

"Cas," Dean tries again.

With his first step forward, a black droplet pools at the corner of Castiel's eye. 

With Dean's second step, it spills over, carves a thin path down his cheek by the corner of his mouth, where another drop is forming.

Another step, and the drop is now a stream, overflowing every crevice of Castiel's body. It stains the thin lines around his eyes, catches at the edge of his nose, bubbles through his lips, choking him.

Cas opens his mouth in a silent plea, but all that comes out is blood and a butchered word that gets lost under the whispers of the forest.

When there's too much of it and not enough of Cas, it breaks through him. It blossoms across his chest and around his feet. It trickles down his fingertips.

A tear falls to the ground, echoing louder than the buzzing in Dean's ears.

He's far away, too far away. No matter how many steps Dean takes he's only walking to the opposite direction. His limbs feel heavy, like he’s walking under water, and he won’t make it.

Castiel looks at him, a crimson river consuming him, and Dean is now running. Towards Castiel and away from him.

He stretches his arm out, reaches for him, the buzzing knocking around his skull, and he knows he won't make it, he won't, he's too late, and he breaks through the door, panting.

Sam lifts his head, shoulders tensing. His hand is already closed around the gun hidden in his waistband when he realises it's only Dean.

"Hey," he says. "Everything alright?"

Dean whirls around. Wooden walls, creaky floorboards, a stained door. The sun casts long shadows through the half-drawn curtains.

"I-" He swallows. The woods, the shadows, the whispering. _ Cas _. "Cas! Where is he?"

Sam's eyebrows draw together, confusion mixed with worry. 

"He went to check out the altar we found at the crossroad." He talks slow and careful. "Remember? He left right after lunch."

Dean doesn't remember lunch. He doesn't remember Cas leaving either. All he remembers is the forest, and blood, and something pressing around him.

"He's hurt," he blurts out. "I just saw him. In the forest. It was night and he- I- We need to find him."

Sam rises from the desk with deliberate movements, like Dean is some kind of wild animal that will be scared off if he moves too fast. Dean is not sure he's wrong. 

"Dean, what are you talking about? When did that happen?"

Dean's arm is itching, and he's desperate to scratch at it, claw his way through skin and muscle and blood. Make it stop.

"Just now. Not even a minute ago."

Sam cockes his head to the side, catches Dean’s eye. "Dean, you've been sitting out on the porch for at least two hours. I could see you through the window."

"No, I wasn't," Dean insists, but doubt creeps over him. He's no longer sure. He had microwave pizza for lunch, and Cas gave him his share because he doesn't need it. He's an angel again. And Dean— When did Dean go into the woods?

Sam's mouth is a tight line, but he forces his brow to relax. "I think you're tired. This case is taking a lot out of us. Why don't you lie down? Get some rest?"

The desk is buried under books and notes and old newspapers that Sam borrowed from the library. He's been sitting hunched over them for hours, and Dean could see him through the window from the porch. 

When did Dean go into the woods?

* * *

Dean's fiddling with the radio again. Pieces of a broken song fill the room when Castiel comes back—sometimes it's music, sometimes it's a woman's distant voice and sometimes it's only static. 

They haven't talked about it, but Sam and Dean keep Dean's earlier freakout between them.

"Found anything?" Deans asks, dropping the radio on the counter again. _ \--Friday-- new infor--river-- _The news anchor's voice reaches them in fragments.

Castiel shakes his head, eyes cast low. "I saw the altar, but the spell is not used for summoning demons."

Sam's chair scratches the floor as he turns it around to face Castiel. "But there were bones inside," he says.

"Dog bones. I understand why you were confused, they are easy to mistake for a black cat."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "So what do you summon with dog bones?" 

"I don't know," Castiel admits, hands loose at his side. "This whole place is charged with power, but it's more ancient and powerful than angels. Whatever we're dealing with, we need to be careful."

—_fly_—_the moon_— the radio sings. Dean turns it off. He drops his head, pressing two fingers against his temple. "Who would have thought we'd one day wish we were fighting demons."

Tapping his pen against one of the books, Sam says, "So back to research it is, I guess."

* * *

Dean comes out of the shower shivering, with water still dripping from his hair. But the itch is gone again.

He throws on a pair of jeans and a black tee before finding the others buried in books. 

“Found anything?” he asks, walking straight to the fridge. God, he needs a beer right about now. Actually he needs something stronger, but he’s not in the mood to be stared at all night by strangers.

“We only have theories so far,” Castiel sighs.

“Good thing is we have narrowed down our research to ancient gods and the elder race, primordial beings, that kind of stuff,” Sam continues, leafing through his notes. “But there are too many of them to go through.”

“Here’s a thought,” Dean says and brings the bottle to his lips to take a sip. “Since now we know what the ingredients in the box are, why don’t we try summoning it again?”

Sam’s face contorts in that way it always does when he treads carefully around Dean. When he wants to talk about feelings and stuff Dean _ does not _ want to talk about. Like right now, when Dean’s latest hallucination is the unacknowledged elephant in the room. Did Sam tell Cas after all?

“Dean, are you sure we should summon this thing? I mean is it safe?”

_ Is it safe for you, _is what Sam doesn’t ask, but Dean has enough experience with his brother by now to get the message. It’s a shame Sam misses the point entirely. It’s not Dean that’s not safe, not as long as he has the Mark on his arm.

“We don’t know if burying a similar box will do the trick,” Cas says, seemingly oblivious to the staring contest between the brothers. “Usually a ritual like that would need a— a summoning of some kind. A spell.”

“And we don’t have that,” Dean observes, taking another sip. He thinks about standing alone, phone pressed in his ears, the box waiting for him to bury it. He thinks he could do it, and it would work. Castiel in his dream wanted him to do it.

But he doesn't think he can trust him. Not after the forest dream. The shiver that starts at the base of his spine is a good reason not to. The Mark flares up in response.

Castiel shakes his head. “No, we don’t.”

Sam taps his pen against the books. “Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way.” A pause, and when it's evident neither Dean nor Cas have any idea what he's talking about, he continues, “Instead of looking for the monster, maybe we should be looking for the one who summoned it. Someone deliberately created that altar at the crossroad.”

“Somebody that probably lives around here,” Castiel adds.

“Great, let’s just go out there and ask around. Oh, wait, I forgot. They won’t. Fucking. Talk to us,” Dean says, feeling his grip on his composure slipping like sand through his fingers. He notices the faint ringing in his ears only after he has stopped talking. 

“Demi talked to us,” Sam tries, but even he’s not convinced.

“She gave us tea and basically told us to give up,” Dean snaps. 

Sam’s mouth tightens, but he chooses to ignore his brother’s volatile temperament. He turns to Castiel instead. “Could Sophia be the one who summoned the monster?”

“If she had never come back, I’d say it's very likely, but she—” 

Castiel's voice fades away. 

It's just the ringing in Dean's ears now, and the air that constricts around him. The world blurs, and the room shifts. No, not the room. Just his shadow, long on the floor. It— it grows and changes shape and more shadows sprout from it. It has three heads.

Dean blinks.

There’s nothing wrong with his shadow. 

“—probably look at people that were at the very least teenagers back—” Sam is saying, and the radio plays only static.

Didn't he turn off the radio?

He clenches his teeth. This is not a dream. He is real.

* * *

The itch is a constant pressure inside Dean's veins now. Cold showers don't do the trick anymore, and he catches himself tracing the mark on his forearm more often than he'd like to admit.

He doesn't sleep. It's becoming harder and harder to tell dream and reality apart—this evening proved that loud and clear—so Dean deals with it the only way he deals with all his problems. 

He doesn't. 

If he stays awake then there are no dreams to confuse him. There, problem solved.

The wind hums around the cabin, flows over the roof and makes the old shutters rattle. The night is heavy with the promise of an early morning rain, and Dean shrugs his leather jacket tight around himself as he steps outside. The Impala is almost lost to the darkness, except there's a figure leaning against her side.

Dean makes a beeline for it. "Couldn't sleep?" 

Castiel has his back to Dean, facing the forest, but he angles his body just slightly, in the way he always does when he sees Dean; like a comet that changes its course when it passes near a black hole. 

"Angels don't need sleep," he rumbles, voice rough and low, and there's the beginning of a smile at the edge of his lip. 

Something like a shiver traces its fingertips up Dean's spine, but this time it feels nice. Right. Terrifying. It's why Dean knows he's real.

"The question is what are you doing out here," Castiel continues.

Their shoulders bump together when Dean comes to stand next to him, and even through the layers of clothes between them, he can feel Cas' body heat where they're pressed together, side by side. The Impala's door against his back anchors him to this moment. 

"What, a man can't go out for a walk in the middle of the night?"

Castiel's eyes search Dean's face, intense and unfaltering. 

The itch worms its way up Dean's throat under Cas' stare, but he holds his gaze.

"Are you worried about the case?" Castiel asks.

Something flickers at the edge of Dean's vision. 

"Aren't you?" he counters, ignoring the shadows creeping in again. This is not a dream. He is real.

Castiel's gaze glides from Dean's face to somewhere behind his shoulder, unfocused as he takes in the entire sleeping town. "This place is filled with magic," he says. "But it doesn't feel tainted."

"What does that mean?"

The wind picks up, and the abandoned spinning wheel in the garden groans its protests as it's brought back to life. It turns once, twice, three times, then slowly squeaks to a stop. Without its noise, the whispers inside Dean's ears are getting louder.

"I don't know. I don't understand this power any more than you do, Dean. I can only tell you that reality feels thinner here. Stretched. Like a veil you can draw back and see what's behind."

His heart is speeding up inside his chest, his pulse almost loud enough to drown out the whispers. He doesn't want to look away from Castiel, but there's movement just out of his sight, and he tears his eyes away, sure that it'll be another trick his brain is playing on him.

The monster stares back at him through an endless pit of horror, all teeth and rippling shadows. It doesn't have a face.

The words get stuck behind Dean's teeth, panic quickly pressing in from every side. 

Castiel must see something change in his face, because he frowns, turns towards the monster, too. 

Dean looks away for just a second, just long enough to catch Castiel's expression shift to confusion, but when he looks back the monster is gone.

Leaves flutter on the crowns of the trees surrounding them.

"Dean, what happened?"

"I—" He swallows past the lump in his throat. He's not going crazy, he's not. Castiel's face is pale and untainted under the moonlight, but Dean can still taste the metallic tang in the back of his throat.

Dean does what he does best. He lies. 

"Nothing. I'm fine."

Castiel doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. He watches Dean from the corner of his eye as they stand together in silence.

It might be Dean's imagination, but it's gotten colder. This chill has wrapped its hands firmly around him and bites at him every chance it gets.

Dean presses more heavily against Castiel, pretending he's not shivering, and that he doesn't see the figures outlined among the trees.

* * *

It’s time to fight back. 

Dean grabs coffee and sandwiches to go from the diner and has them set on the table even before Sam shuffles into the room, eyes still sleep-heavy.

“What’s this?” he asks, trying to tame his hair with this fingers.

Dean looks up from the map Sam found on their first day here. “Breakfast. Dig in, ‘cause we have a long drive today.”

Sam turns to stare at Castiel sitting on the sofa, nursing his own cup of coffee, but there are no answers to be found there. He crosses the room and joins his brother on the table. “We’re leaving?”

Dean raises a finger up, smirking. His master plan is already in motion. “We’re driving out of town to find wifi.” And hopefully more information on what is going on around here. 

Sam huffs a breath, like he can’t believe he didn’t think of that sooner. He gobbles down his sandwich quickly after that.

In less than an hour, all three of them pile in the Impala, and Dean puts in his favourite cassette. He’s more than ready to get out of this town, if only for a little while. The overcast sky peeks through trees and houses, heavy and grey with the coming storm, and Dean wants to be out of the thickest part of the woods before it’s raining. They should find civilization less than an hour away if they don’t make any stops. 

He drives over the river and through the town center, makes a left turn on a cobble street that makes the Impala groan and protest, and then they see the treeline that marks the edge of the town and their ticket back to normal life.

The Mark hums satisfied for once. It doesn’t like this place any more than Dean does. The only thing the two of them seem to agree on.

They drive on the narrow road that brought them here through the forest, and Dean lifts his eyes to look at the town behind him through the rear view mirror. A black dog sits next to a house, watching the Impala drive away.

_ —Dean. _

The girl appears out of nowhere.

Dean’s eyes snap back to the road ahead just in time to see the edge of a white dress and a blonde head. He slams his foot on the brake, turning the wheel as far as it will go. 

The screech of the tires almost cover Sam’s yell, as he reaches to grab the wheel and try to steady the car. Castiel in the back seat is thrown against the window. They spin on the road, thankfully avoiding the trees and miraculously the girl, before the Impala comes to an abrupt stop.

Dean’s grip on the wheel is white-knuckled.

Sam doesn’t let go. “Dude. What the hell?”

He’s trembling. Shaking. And this time the Mark is pissed off and raging a storm inside him. “Didn’t you see her?” is all Dean manages to say.

Castiel pulls himself up with a groan, a hand on his head. “See who?” 

“The girl,” Dean sputters. It’s a difficult task to open the door when his fingers refuse to cooperate with him, but Dean manages it on the second try and he stumbles out of the car. 

The road is empty. 

Two doors slam closed. Sam and Castiel come to stand next to where he is kneeling on the asphalt.

“There was no girl,” Sam says, eyes searching the trees around them.

“I— We almost hit her,” Dean protests, but he can’t be sure anymore. The darkness is closing in on him again. 

A hand lands on his shoulder. Squeezes. “Why don’t the two of us go to the diner to grab a coffee?” Castiel suggests, poorly hidden worry laced through his words. “Sam can just go on his own.”

Dean wants to protest. He wants to leave this town. But the stupid dog is still standing watch by that run down house, and his name echoes around him, high-pitched and distant. A girl’s voice calls to him. It’s a warning. One only he can hear.

“Maybe I’ll try tomorrow,” Sam says. “We’d better all get back to the cabin for now.”

The first raindrop falls by his finger where he has his palm spread on the ground. 

* * *

Rain beats against the cabin window. The dark clouds covering the sky make the early morning feel more like a late evening. Dean is leaning against the wall, forehead resting on the cool glass.

Sam left an hour or so ago, taking the Impala with him, so only Cas' Lincoln Continental is parked outside now. Dean lets his eyes drift over the car and the spinning wheel, but refuses to look at the treeline in the distance. He knows better than that now. Castiel has been standing at the edge of the woods for half an hour now, waiting, staring at Dean. There's a steady buzz under Dean's skin, and it gets stronger every time he forgets himself and steals a glance at Castiel. The Mark tells him it's not real.

He takes a breath. Tries to steady his heartbeat.

This is a dream. He won't let the fake Castiel lure him out there.

Inhale. Exhale.

A hand lands on his shoulder.

"Hungry?" the real Cas asks, coming to stand next to Dean. His hand doesn't fall away, and it anchors Dean to this moment. He's been awake all along, but the dreams are hunting him all the same.

When he turns to check, fake-Castiel has dissappeared. "Starving," he mumbles. 

He won't let fake-Castiel lure him outside, but he thinks it's safe to follow Cas to his car and drive to the diner.

* * *

"So, get this. " Sam drops to the seat next to Dean, making the plates on the booth clatter. "Apparently, Sophia was not the first woman to go missing in her early twenties only to be found wandering the woods thirty years later."

"What, you mean there are more?" Dean asks, taking a sip from his coffee. His body feels heavy and slow from the long sleepless night, but he's determined not to let it show. He's fine. He can ignore the weird dog staring at him through the diner's window, just like he can ignore the Mark in his arm firing up his nerve endings every now and then.

He hopes he does a better job than Castiel, who's trying to pretend he's not watching him like a hawk. He is real.

It's pouring outside, fog embracing every house and building in sight, but the _ tap tap tap _ of the rain against the window does nothing to ease Dean's nerves. His eyes keep glancing outside, following shadow limbs that always dance right out of sight. And the dog is still staring at him. Its shadow looks like it has three heads, and Dean’s hand curls into a fist. This is not a dream.

The curly-haired waitress comes by to fill a cup of coffee for Sam and take his order, before she strolls away to the next customer.

"Let's see. I found a woman named Mona. She walked out of the woods sometime in the 50's, mute, and as the papers describe, and I quote, 'without any spark of life within her'. The journalist goes on to talk about a girl that was living next to him that went missing when he was still a young boy, which he believed was Mona."

Dean takes a bite from his potatoes, counting down with his fingers as he calculates. "So if this Mona chick was around the same age Sophia was when she went missing, she must be… what, over a hundred years old now?"

"If she's still alive," Castiel points out.

"Well, I couldn't find any papers on her - no death certificate or her name mentioned ever again after that one time," Sam says, "but there's a cemetery on the other side of the town. We can go and see if we can find her grave tonight."

Dean almost chokes on his french fries. "Yeah, let's not forget to get her some flowers while we're at it. Why would we want to go to her grave?"

Sam shrugs. "Do you have any better ideas?"

Dean doesn't.

* * *

The river flows under them, freezing and murky. 

The rumble of the Impala vibrates up Dean's knees as they drive across the bridge, and a crow watches the car as it passes by.

They grab their equipment from the trunk—salt, holy water, silver, the usual shit, because they still don't know what they are dealing with—and break the chain that keeps the iron gate of the cemetery closed.

It's a moonless, cloudy night, the rain having eased to a low drizzle that hangs from Dean's eyelashes every now and then. Their boots squelch up the muddy path that winds through the crumbling gravestones. Castiel keeps a close distance behind Dean, even putting his hand on the small of Dean's back to steady him when he slips while climbing up the hill. 

Dean flushes all the way to his hair roots, but he's a little busy trying to stay focused on the job at hand and not on the ever changing shapes of the night around him. He feels like somebody's watching them, the hair at the back of his neck standing, but when he shines his light across the damp field and neglected stones, he finds nothing. Movement swirls at the edges again, whispers rising around them, but neither Cas nor Sam comment, and Dean keeps facing stubbornly forward.

Sam leads them to the top of the hill, where the statue of a cloaked figure with a gnarled staff overlooks the cemetery. The same triple ring found above every door in town is carved at the base.

"Right," Sam says, turning to face them. "Should we split up?"

Dean sees the protests forming in Castiel's lips and cuts him off before he has the chance to speak. He doesn't need a babysitter, no matter what Cas may think about him.

"Sounds good, Sammy. I'll take the south side."

Castiel's face falls, just a little, only enough that if Dean hadn't been paying attention he'd miss it. But he heads towards the west. 

Sam raises a questioning eyebrow at his brother behind Castiel's retreating back, but he knows better than to expect a straight answer. He heads down the hill in the opposite direction.

Dean rarely feels scared in a cemetery—his experience so far has taught him that anything that's already dead can be killed again—but tonight is the exception. Tonight he's filled with nervousness and fear that seem to vibrate under his skin. They join the dull throb of the mark through his veins, make his body feel foreign and strange. Like a shirt he borrowed and doesn't sit right across his shoulders.

He checks with his flashlight around him one more time—years of hunting have made caution his second nature by now—but he finds nothing.

Except— 

Wait. Did the head of the statue always face that way? It's a subtle change, less than a degree, but the hidden face looks straight at him now, invisible eyes locked with his. 

Dean shudders, cold hands seizing his heart and squeezing. 

He walks a little faster than necessary down the hill.

There aren't many trees in the graveyard, just a few yew trees around the perimeter, but Dean feels like he's suffocating under the vast sky. The world breathes in hushed tones, the air pressing around him heavy and damp and oily, and he wants to peel his very skin off if it'll just stop it from _ itching. _

His flashlight falls on gravestone after gravestone after gravestone, but there's not a single name that comes even close to Mona. The others don't seem to have better luck. 

He moves to the next grave, and he sees her. 

Dark hair that falls to her low back, a curvy figure veiled in ivory that catches the light and makes him stop dead in his tracks. She's kneeling in front of a grave, a bouquet of vivid purple flowers in her arms. Her pale hand moves a weed away from where it's obscuring the name of the person buried there. 

"Hey."

_ What are you doing out here in the middle of the night, _he wants to ask, but the words never make it past his throat.

She stands up, slow and graceful, the breeze caressing her slender shoulders. The raindrops beading in her hair shine like pearls when they catch the light as she turns to face him, clear, white eyes staring at him from a hollow face—not white as Lilith’s were cloudy and milky, but not like Cas’ bright and electric when he uses his grace either. They're just empty. As if an artists painted her portrait on α canvas and forgot to draw the eyes.

She’s haunting and beautiful, and the air around her hums with ancient energy. 

She doesn’t move, but they do. 

They crawl out of the shadows—no, they crawl _ with _ the shadows, all twisted angles and faceless empties. They stretch for him, and they reach out, and they close in on him, and Dean is frozen in place. One of them closes a bony hand around his forearm, right around the Mark of Cain, and his arm lights up with scorching pain. 

The monster draws back with a pained screech. Their hideous bodies twist and bend in on themselves, and Dean tries to pull away from the woman, but he trips on something and falls with a surprised gasp, pain shooting up all through his body.

“Dean!”

Two flashlights turns towards him at the same time. Sam is the first to reach him, dropping to help him up, but it’s Cas that keeps holding on, his palm tight around Dean’s elbow, a soothing touch that extinguishes the fire under his skin.

“Dean, what happened?”

The graveyard is empty, save for the three of them. The woman and the monsters are gone. Really gone. 

Dean can feel the pressure around his lungs ease, and he breathes in hungrily.

“Didn’t you see them? Her?” he asks.

Sam looks around them, squinting to make out the shapes in the dark. “See who?”

“The woman, and the— I don’t know what they were.” He’s trembling now, and Cas' grip on him becomes firmer. He doesn’t stop himself from leaning his weight against him.

“Dean, there’s no one,” Sam tries to say.

“No, Sammy, I saw her. And I don't know why you can't, or why Cas can’t, but she's real.”

His flashlight has rolled away from him, fallen from his hand. It points to the unmarked grave the woman was standing in front of. The flowers are still there. They are real, she’s real.

Dean’s not crazy.

* * *

Dean’s fingers tighten around the wheel. This is the only place he feels safe now. The car isn’t moving, but worn leather and motor oil fill his lungs with every breath.

Inhale, exhale.

He hasn’t slept in days. 

The world has started coming apart at the seams around him. Sometimes he’ll be looking at something, or someone, and he’ll blink, only to find something else hovering just behind, like a double exposure photograph. He’s constantly trembling now. Every nerve in his body has betrayed him, and he feels hot, too hot, and the source of all his troubles burns steadily under his skin on his forearm. Last night, while Sam was sleeping and Cas wasn’t looking, Dean opened one of the kitchen drawers, stared down at the knives in there. If it’d make it stop he’d do it in a heartbeat. But it won’t, and so he closed the drawer and grabbed a glass of cold water instead.

Sam has been muttering about gods and ancient powers more and more, but the research takes too long, and Dean is running out of time.

They come with the twilight. They appear out of thin air, so slow to materialize that Dean has trouble remembering if they were ever not there at all. 

One of them is sliced open right in the middle, a gaping hole of galaxies and teeth. Another walks in circles on the porch, flayed skin hanging behind it. It leaves a trail of an oily substance behind, which stains the floor and drips to the ground, infecting it.

_ Tap tap tap _

Dean jolts away from the window, but it’s only Cas. 

His face darkens when he sees Dean’s reaction. Slowly, he walks to the passenger side and slides into the seat. The radio is not turned on, but the car is filled with static.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks, eyes soft, worry in every line of his face. 

“I’m fine.” Short. Tight. A lie.

Cas shakes his head. “No, you’re not. You haven’t slept since I got here.”

Dean’s hold on the wheel tightens. “I don’t need sleep, I’m fine.”

“I can help you get some rest,” Castiel says, reaching two fingers for Dean’s forehead. “It’ll be dreamless and—”

Dean doesn’t realise he has jerked away from the touch until he sees the hurt in Cas’ eyes, his hand frozen between them. It falls away, curls into a fist on Cas’ lap.

He wants to pull him in again, bury his face in Cas' neck and pretend that there isn't something hanging from the street sign, bent in angles that are all wrong, or that he can go to sleep without fearing of waking up in a dream. He wants to pretend that his blood is not itching with _ want _ and _ hunger _ and _ hurt. _Cas is safe and real. The only thing he can tell is real anymore. The fake one has stopped appearing. It's just the monsters now.

“Cas,” Dean tries, but there’s one of them clawing its way out of the neighbor's well, and the static in his ears gets worse. He’s not sure if anything will come out of his mouth if he tries to speak. He’s worried something terrible will come out of him.

Castiel sighs. A long exhale that is deafening. "Are you seeing them again?"

Does he actually say it? Or does Dean only imagine it?

The words are distant and buried under the whispers, but they keep echoing inside Dean's skull like they were never spoken outside of it. 

"Dean," Cas says, trying to coax an answer out of him, but Dean feels like he's drowning, and he doesn't know how to ask for help.

"How bad is it?"

Bad enough that he wishes his head would just explode and save him from this misery, but he can't say that. Something slimy has crawled into his mouth and sits heavy on his tongue. He was supposed to be safe here.

"I'll get Sam."

The door opens and closes, and Dean is left alone. With them.

They hover just around the car, closer and closer with every passing second, and between their forms—_ through _their forms—he sees her standing under the trees. Her wrinkly arms are the only part of her not covered by her dusky veil. 

He blinks, and there are three of them, one fading into the other, their forms sliding together without moving, until he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. 

Dean’s out of the car. He’s walking towards them, and they are walking away from him and into the woods.

The forest calls his name. The monsters open a path for him, guide him where torches burn like six floating orbs in the night. They wait for him, they wait to lead him, and Dean follows. 

Twigs and branches reach for him, twist in his clothes and try to hold him back, but his blood is boiling with thunder, and he pushes through. He shakes off the bony hands that try to grab him, shakes off the fog when it floods his boots and tries to sink him. Fake-Castiel won't trick him anymore, but that woman has all the answers, Dean knows she does, and he's going to get them.

The last light of the sun is quickly fading away, and soon Dean is walking blindly behind the torches, and the forest is pressing all around him. It floods his nose and his lungs and suffocates him. 

His boot catches on something, and Dean goes under. He's on his back, almost blind from the darkness, but it's moving, shifting, until it's not darkness at all, but cloaked figures standing above him, chanting in time with the monsters' whispers. They call to him, faceless bodies staring at him under the weak light of the new moon. The spell drapes over him like a heavy blanket.

There are hands on him. 

_ I know what you want. Come with me and you can have it. I can help you. _

She stands above him and around him, veil flowing with the breeze. The words are spoken inside his mind, above the noise engulfing him, a whisper that crawls like spiders under his skin.

His arm is burning up, hunger flaring inside him, consuming him. The image of blue eyes flashes behind his lids and he pushes away. He won’t do this, he won’t. He’s going to protect them.

_ Tell me, Dean, how much are you willing to give for what you desire? _ she asks, the silence echoing in the clearing. 

There are hands on him, pulling, tugging, clawing. He can’t breathe.

_ Let me in _, she says, veil flying away. Gibbous eyes bore into his. Three sets of them. 

They’re everywhere around him. 

They are on the faceless creatures, their joints cracking and breaking with a sickening crunch that leaves yellow ligament and rotting tissue to hang outside of them. 

They are behind the hoods of the cloaked figures, their chanting louder and louder now, smothering Dean.

They are right in front of him, as she grabs his arms, nails biting into skin. 

_ Let me in. _

The gun is in his hand already, a reassuring weight that makes his fingertips tingle with power.

The cloacked figures scatter away, a whirlwind of black and red and screaming, but Dean has his fingers on the trigger, and he presses, at the same time arms press all around him.

The gunshot echoes through the trees, breaking the night in a million bloody fragments. Reality falls away from him, or maybe it's the dream that falls away from him. It's so hard to tell these days.

The monsters are flickering around them. Tenebrous bodies swallow themselves until there’s nothing but noise left behind. It's just him and the cloacked figures - real people, women and girls and men, triple ring amulets hanging from their necks.

Arms pin him to the ground, kick the gun away from him. The grass is stained dark and red where a girl presses bloody hands on her belly. Her scream fills his ears.

Cas has his nose pressed into Dean's hair. He's saying something, but it's too far away for Dean to hear it. There are hands on him, but they are his brother's and his angel's, and the last thing Dean sees is the horror written on Sam's face. He gives in to the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing that comes back to him, is that he is trembling, but at least he’s not cold anymore. He’s not burning up either.  He blinks his eyes open, the light coming through the window blinding him. He flinches away with a groan.

"Dean? How are you feeling?" The bed dips with Cas' weight when he moves to sit at its edge. 

“Like a truck hit me,” Dean answers honestly, cracking an eye open to peer at him. He looks the same as always. Messy hair, disheveled clothes, worry lines around his eyes that Dean put there. Great, he just keeps messing everything up, doesn’t he?

Except he can’t really remember what he screwed up this time exactly. 

Last night comes back to him in bits and pieces. The faceless monsters, the cloaked figures, the old woman, the white eyes. There was a— a gunshot. A girl. 

Panic instantly squeezes his throat until he can’t breathe. He shot a girl. There was blood and crying and— 

Castiel doesn’t try to touch him, his last attempt in the car probably still fresh in his mind, and Dean can’t exactly blame him. Cas only leans forward, catches Dean's eye and holds it, forcing Dean to breathe with him until he’s no longer hyperventilating.

Inhale, exhale.

Angels don’t need to breathe, Dean thinks absently, but it’s hard to focus when all he can see is blue.

“Are you okay?”

“What the fuck happened?” Dean asks, pushing himself on his elbows, taking in the room. “The girl, I… Did I?”

“She’s going to be fine,” Castiel smiles, tight and forced. “The High Priestesses are with her as we speak.”

“The High Priestesses? What the fuck?” Dean sputters, and he’s up in an instant, but the room spins around him and the only reason he doesn’t fall is because Castiel has his hand on Dean’s elbow, grip firm.

“Take it easy,” he instructs, helping him sit down again. “It’s been a long day.”

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asks immediately. They’re back at the cabin, but it’s just them inside the room, and it’s day again whereas his last memory is of darkness and night. How many hours has he lost? 

“He’s downstairs,” Cas says, soothingly. “We have a guest.”

* * *

Their guest is sitting on the couch when Castiel helps Dean down the stairs.

Demi turns to look at him, biting her lower lip.  Her dog whines, kicking Sam for more pets. She has her head on his lap, while Demi and Sam have a quiet conversation over warm cups of tea. A conversation that dies the moment Dean steps inside. 

“Dean Winchester,” Demi says, evenly. “I should have guessed.”

“Does anyone care to fill me in on what I missed?” Dean asks, propping himself up against the counter. Demi has her sleeves rolled to her elbows, and Dean’s eye fall to the tri-ring tattooed on the inside of her wrist immediately. 

He’s standing taller than the others in the room, and despite everything, it makes him feel a little bit better. Like he still has some control over the situation. 

Sam and Demi exchange a look. 

Clearly he doesn’t.

Castiel takes it upon himself to start the explanation. “We have stumbled upon a Coven. You literally walked in on one of their rituals.”

“Great, just let me grab my witch killing bullets,” Dean says, watching the horror spread on Demi’s face. At least it was a witch he shot, he thinks, though judging from everyone else's expression that was a mistake, too.

Sam extends a hand out, stopping him. “No, no. Dean, there’s not going to be any killing around here.”

“We’ve never harmed anyone,” Demi says, pale like a sheet of paper. 

"The witches are friendly, Dean." Sam raises his eyebrows at his brother, urging him to let them talk without arguing for a few minutes. 

Hell, Dean's exhausted, and downright sick of what has been driving him mad the last few days. He's willing to give Demi a shot.

"It's not demons." Cas jumps in, like he can read Dean's mind.

Demi visibly shivers, her grip around her cup tight. "Our Goddess has nothing to do with that kind of evil.” 

“Your Goddess?”

Sam turns to put a hand on her shoulder, the dog nuzzling into his side. “Hecate,” he explains. “She is a greek Goddess, associated with sorcery, crossroads, entry-ways.”

“Ghosts,” Castiel adds, coming to stand by Dean’s side.

“She is our patron,” Demi says. “She protects us and grants us power—healing magic, long lives, the knowledge of crafting potions—and in return we only have to give her a companion.”

“A sacrifice,” Dean surmises, looking between his brother and Cas.

Sam grimaces. “Dean—”

“It’s not so simple,” Demi cuts him off. “She takes the girls with her to the underworld, yes, but they always return, and they are the most powerful of us all. They study by her side, learning the most sacred forms of witchcraft, and they come back to lead us and help us.”

“They’re the three High Priestesses,” Castiel provides.

“Sophia is your High Priestess?” Dean asks, eyebrows reaching almost his hairline. “She is sitting on a porch, drooling.”

Placing the cup on her lap, Demi reaches to pat the top of her dog’s head. “Adaptation can be difficult when you’ve spent thirty years in the underworld, that’s true. But she just needs some time. And then she can join the other Elders as the head of our Coven, and the oldest High Priestess can retire and rest, for someone else has come to take her place.”

“So let me get this straight,” Dean says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You guys send girls to hell—”

“To the underworld.”

“Whatever. And they come back wise and powerful?”

Demi tilts her head to the side. “Well, basically, yes. The Goddess spends half the year in the Underworld, as a promise she once made to someone dear to her. That person is long gone now, and the Underworld can get lonely.”

“Half a year is very different to thirty,” Dean points out.

Demi shrugs. “Time flows differently there, as I’m sure you know.” 

“Right,” Dean says, still not completely convinced. “And what about— what about all the monsters, and the dreams, and all the shit around here? And why was I the only one who could see them?”

“Our Goddess has staked her claim on this land. It’s where the veil between the land of the living and the land of the dead is thinnest; where the river flows from our world to theirs. Her powers keep everything malevolent outside, but her followers are not all… alive.”

“Hecate is known for taking lost spirits and souls under her protection,” Castiel agreess, like this is totally normal.

“Okay, but why me?” Dean insists.

“Hecate is the Goddess of in-betweens,” Demi says. “And you’re… well, you’re stuck in a between. Not completely human, but not a creature of the underworld yet either.” Her eyes fall where the Mark of Cain is hidden under several layers of clothing on his forearm.

"She wants to claim me?" Dean asks incredulous.

"She wants to protect you," Demi says. "Before something far worse claims you and your soul."

The Mark throbs dully under her stare, but it quickly fizzles out.

"Now that we know about you and your situation we can keep the flow of the Goddesses' magic stable. It should help calm you, stop the— the ‘monsters’ as you call them," she says.

"Dean, Hecate may be the answer to our problem," Castiel says, all blue, wide eyes.

"Can you help remove the Mark?" Sam asks Demi, hope filling his every word.

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. Hecate is powerful, but that Mark she cannot touch. She can contain it, though. Keep it sleeping."

Dean narrows his eyes. "And what's the catch? I have a picnic with her in the Underworld?" 

“No, not the Underworld. But you have to stay here, where she can keep you safe. The Underworld is a cruel place for a tainted soul.”

Sam and Castiel both turn to face him, holding their breaths. They need this, Dean knows it. They need a safety net to fall back on while they search for a more permanent solution, but he can’t give it to them. They don’t know how strong the Mark truly is, and what it wants Dean to do. They don’t know its thirst.

“Your Goddess almost drove me crazy, so thanks, but no thanks,” he says, and it’s final. 

Cas and Sam both know it, their shoulders slumping in defeat and disappointment.

“She was only trying to convince you,” Demi says, though she seems to understand. “Gods only speak through signs and riddles. She wasn’t trying to drive you crazy, she only wanted to help you. But the Mark has as much a claim on you as she does, and it made it harder for her to reach you.”

It’s almost hysterical. Even when it comes to the Goddess of in-betweens, Dean is still stuck between her and the Mark of Cain. His life is simply an endless series of fucked up irony after fucked up irony. He should make a motto out of that.

“Very kind of her, but we don’t need her,” Dean says dryly. He turns to his brother. “And since we solved this case, I guess it’s time for us to go.”

Sam’s eyes widen, like he’d completely forgotten about the case. Not that Dean hadn’t forgotten the case. It’s just that Dean was a little busy dealing with mystic Goddesses and vivid hallucinations to keep his head in the game.

“By the way, Demi,” Sam starts. “I understand everything happening around here is, um, consensual, but I think you might want to keep the girls disappearing out of the papers. Otherwise more hunters might come looking.”

A blush crawls across Demi’s cheeks, her eyes falling to her lap. “We’ve been too careless,” she admits. “Sophia’s family was not part of the Coven. In the past, letting the Goddess choose her companions was not a problem, but in the last century or so, more and more humans have come to live here. We should have taken our measures to make sure all the girls selected were of a witch family."

"Be sure to do that, and we'll stay out of your hair," Dean says, pushing himself away from the counter. "Come on, Sammy. Let's gather everything and get out of here."

"Dean," Sam tries, a last effort to convince his brother to take this last shrivel of hope, but Dean has his mind set.

"We leave in an hour."

"Dean." Demi stops him with a hand on his elbow when he's already halfway across the room. She moved fast and silently to reach him. She drops her voice, her next words only for Dean's ears.

"Desire is not a sin. What you love can destroy you, but it can also set you free if you choose the right path." She stares at him for long, white flickering over the brown of her eyes. It’s only for a second, but it’s there. Then she sighs. "The Goddess will be here if you need her," she says simply.

Dean shrugs her off and keeps walking.

* * *

Dean is ready much earlier than Sam. He throws his duffel back in the trunk, then turns to find Castiel standing by his own car. He doesn't have any stuff to carry, and he certainly doesn't have any reason to linger behind, but he's still here, waiting for Dean.

"Ready to hit the open road?" Dean asks, approaching him.

"I am," Castiel confirms, in his formal, peculiar way. He cocks his head to the side, squinting at Dean. 

Dean knows Cas thinks he should stay here, but Cas, for all his endless knowledge and wisdom, has no fucking idea what the Mark is like. And he doesn't understand how strong it is.  Hecate can try and beat it, but deep in his bones, Dean knows who is going to be the final winner in this match, and the end result is only going to be a bloody mess. The Mark will eventually consume him, and in his downfall he'll take everyone close to him down with him.

There's no need for an entire coven to be destroyed because of him.

"I've been wondering," Castiel speaks, breaking Dean out of his thoughts. "What did the Goddess use to lure you?"

"Hm?"

"Gods tempt mortals with the image of what they hold dearest," Castiel explains. "The image of people you trust or you crave. What did Hecate use to tempt you?"

The Mark itches again under his clothes, recognizing the feeling curling hot inside Dean's ribs at the sight of Cas. 

Demi is wrong. The problem is not Dean hurting for those he loves, it's that Dean hurts them instead. And the Mark wants him to hurt them. So he needs to stay away.

"Princess Leia," Dean says shrugging. "Can you believe it? I should have figured out it was a trick sooner."

Castiel's face doesn't change, but it's evident he doesn't believe a word Dean is saying. He doesn't push for a real answer, though, and for that Dean is eternally grateful.

“How are you?” Castiel asks, changing the subject.

“Fine,” Dean says. A lie again, though at least this time there’s nothing crawling out of the shadows to drag him to the Underworld.

“No, you’re not,” Castiel says immediately, a sad tilt to his lips. 

“I’ve never been ‘fine’ in my life, so I can’t exactly complain,” Dean says. “Honestly, I’m as good as one can be. I’m great.”

“You should stay here.”

“No, I should be out there hunting things.”

Castiel doesn’t argue, but his expression is answer enough. He thinks Dean’s making a mistake, and Dean’s happy to let him. Maybe that way he’ll finally understand that Dean is a toxic piece of hot mess, and he’ll stay away. It might kill Dean, but at least Cas will be safe.

“I should go,” Castiel finally sighs, turning to eye his car, like he still doesn’t completely trust it. Wheels instead of wings. A poor substitution, even Dean can see that, and one that can be traced back to one single moment of Castiel’s existence: meeting Dean. Yeah, he’s better off far away from the Winchesters.

“Don’t let me hold you back,” he says, pushing his hands in his pockets.

Castiel’s smile is tight while he slides behind the wheel. “We’ll talk again soon.”

“Sure, I’ll call you when we get back to the bunker,” Dean promises.

He stands in the rundown garden, watching the road long after Castiel’s car has disappeared around a corner. It’s ten more minutes before Sam comes through the door, duffel bag thrown over his shoulder.

“I’m ready to go,” he announces. “Where’s Cas?”

“Gone,” Dean answers kicking a pebble with his boot. “Get your stuff in the car.”

They don’t pass by Demi’s house on their way out of the town, though Dean is sure Sophia is still sitting there. They drive straight over the river, through the city center and towards where the road starts winding through the forest. They pass the crossroad, and for the first time, Dean lifts his eyes to look through the mirror at what they leave behind.

Through the fog, a figure appears, standing under the three-headed pole. Her veil ripples with the wind, but she makes no move to follow them. For once, she is alone.

Dean’s foot is steady on the accelerator. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to give [ galaxystiel ](https://blueeyedangel.co.vu/post/188536473292/cthonic-claim-art-post-written-for) all your love!


End file.
